


if I find love where I'm going, will it survive me?

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 19:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: the sex was good, but he wanted more sometimes. the fact that he wanted this from a man didn't frighten him; the fact that he wanted it from Richarddid.





	if I find love where I'm going, will it survive me?

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally published on the 31st December 2015 (by me under a different username) and I'm reuploading it now as a process of moving my works from one account to the other. it's been edited for punctuation errors but nothing else.

Jeremy’s done all number of absurd things in his life. He’s driven a pickup truck into a reservoir; he’s driven a Rolls into a public pool; he’s made a stretch limo out of a Fiat Panda. None of those things, however—nor any of the other absolutely idiot things he’s done in the past—can compare to this: pushing Richard up against the wall of their hotel room and kissing him fiercely, an eternity’s worth of frustration pouring into each other. To his faint surprise Richard kisses him back, reaching for Jeremy desperately, hands diving for the waistband of Jeremy’s jeans. He didn’t expect to get that far, but he’s alright with seeing where it goes.

***

They’d continued like that for a while, both of them not really putting a name to what they were doing—only knowing that it was becoming an increasingly common occurrence for Richard to turn up round Jeremy’s late at night, slightly tipsy, reeking of cigarette smoke and begging to be fucked. Jeremy was all too happy to oblige, losing himself in the feeling of Richard, so hard and lithe and sinewy, so different to anything he’s ever experienced before.

Their meetings were always passionate and rough, both of them taking out their emotions on each other—easy to do, since they both wore their hearts on their sleeves, even when not shagging. This night was no different; Jeremy had opened the door to Richard who had barrelled in, not even bothering to say hello. Without hesitation he’d backed Jeremy into a corner and had kissed him, his beer breath washing over Jeremy’s face. He’d responded in turn, of course, accidentally pulling off one of Richard’s shirt buttons in the desperation to get to his skin, the button skittering across the floor and disappearing somewhere underneath the fridge. His lips fell to Richard’s shoulder, his hand pinching Richard’s nipple, but all of a sudden – even as Richard’s hands fiddled with the zip on his jeans desperately—it wasn’t enough.

***

That’s not to say that their liaisons weren’t affectionate: they were. Sometimes Richard looked at him, really, _properly_ looked at him with a soft expression in his eyes that Jeremy couldn’t comprehend, and it frightened him down to his core. It’s just that this thing was primarily about sex, and the both of them knew it. It’s why he always woke to an empty bed, a drying towel hung neatly in the bathroom, a cooling pot of coffee waiting downstairs.

He’d be lying to himself if he said that once, just once, he wouldn’t like to wake up to Richard clinging to him like a limpet, fingers curling into his shirt, face pressed up against his chest. The sex was good—the sex was great, really, if he was being honest—but he wanted more sometimes. The fact that he wanted this from a man didn’t frighten him; the fact that he wanted it from Richard _did_.

This morning is the same as all the rest: he blinks awake slowly to a wide empty bed, the pillow next to him smelling like Richard’s shampoo. Still sleep addled, he pulls the pillow close to his face and inhales, breathing in the scent, and finds himself wishing Richard was here, in the bed, not just the ghost of him.

He drags himself out of bed and stumbles downstairs, reaching for the coffee and pouring it into his favourite mug that’s already been set out for him, still chasing away the last dregs of sleep that linger in his brain. He’s got a full day of filming ahead, and he knows that seeing Richard again is going to do things to him—in both the heart department and the trouser department, probably—and so he needs to prepare.

***

“Let me in, Jeremy,” Richard says as soon as the door swings open. “S’cold.”

Jeremy obliges, standing aside as Richard stomps his feet on the doormat and heads inside, disappearing into the kitchen. Wearily, he follows, suddenly aware that he’s tired of all of this: this pretense, this game that they play, acting normal during the day around James, and fucking each other senseless in the night. It’s not _real_ , and Richard could change his mind at any moment and decide that no, he’s not interested in shagging his fat colleague. He hates that, hates the uncertainty of it all.

Leaning on the wall, he watches Richard remove a bottle of wine from a paper bag, and sets a bottle of beer next to that. He has to stand on his toes to get the glasses, which are located in the tallest cabinet, and as he does the thin t-shirt he’s wearing rides up, exposing a strip of smooth skin. Jeremy shivers, and represses the urge to touch it; he simply watches and waits. Richard’s never brought alcohol or food before; it’s always been just a litany of kisses, no pomp or circumstance around the event.

“Brought fish and chips as well,” Richard says, turning, offering the chips to Jeremy. “Indian was closed.”

Jeremy steps forward and takes a chip, waiting for the other penny to drop, waiting for Richard to proclaim this is all a joke and James is waiting outside to proclaim he was in on it too. But no, Richard hands him a full wine glass, gathers up the fish and chips, grabs his beer and heads into the living room to flop down on the sofa, grabbing the remote and clicking through the channels.

Warily, he takes a seat on the sofa next to Richard, still not having said a word. He just watches Richard eat as he picks through his chips, ignoring his fish, taking swigs from his beer every now and again.

“Richard—what—” he begins, his voice croakier than he intended. Richard turns to look at him and presses a quick, greasy kiss to his lips, shrugging slightly.

“Felt like coming over and watching a film with you,” he replies, his expression suddenly turning vulnerable, soft. “Is that alright? Should have asked, shouldn’t I.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “You’ve never done me that courtesy before. Don’t start now or the Earth will surely collapse into a black hole.”

Richard rolls his eyes but shifts closer to Jeremy on the sofa. “You’re always so full of hyperbole, Jeremy. Do you always—”

He’s cut off by Jeremy pulling him close and kissing him softly, his hand coming up to curl in Richard’s hair, suddenly aware that, once again, Richard has surprised him.

***

They settle into an uneasy rhythm, although most of the time it feels like he’s floundering, treading water. Keeping the relationship—although he hesitates to call it that—secret from James is the hardest; too many times they’ve been in the portakabin at work, Richard’s hand on his arse, locked in an embrace when James has bumbled in, completely oblivious as usual, and they’ve both had to leap away like two teenagers.

The weeks fall away, and before he knows it it’s November and they’ve been doing this since June and that scares him, the fact that he’s growing old so quickly scares the life out of him because his hip is already giving him trouble and he doesn’t want to give any of this up.

“What’re you thinking about?” Richard asks, jolting him out of his crisis, linking his fingers through Jeremy’s.

He blinks and looks down at Richard, and all of a sudden it becomes too much, the air closes in around him and he feels he can’t breathe properly, because Richard is looking at him with so much open love and affection, a smile playing loosely on his lips, his brown eyes so wide, and Jeremy can see himself reflected in them. It’s that moment that he realises he’s completely and totally in love with Richard and the thought of that scares the shit out of him, so he reaches for Richard and brings their mouths together in a crushing kiss that thrills him down to his core.

Richard responds immediately, pushing Jeremy down on the sofa with perhaps more voracity than is strictly required, his hands immediately reaching for Jeremy’s fly, undoing it with deft, practiced hands, his lips finding Jeremy’s neck and biting. Richard’s always so full of energy in sex, hands everywhere at once, always so impatient. Right now he’s curling his hand around Jeremy’s cock, starting up a frantic rhythm, reaching for Jeremy’s shirt, unbuttoning it with one hand.

“Jez…” he whines, shifting back slightly, eyes wild. “Want you to fuck me.”

Jeremy’s breath quickens, and he arches off the sofa, the feelings all coming fast and hard, assaulting him. There’s nothing particularly different about this time—lord knows they’ve fucked on the sofa countless times before—but suddenly there _is_ and he can’t stand it, so he pushes Richard off him and sits up, unbuttoning his shirt quickly, desperate to get skin to skin with the younger man.

Once he’s naked—which doesn’t take very long at all, not with Richard helping to slide his shirt off his shoulders, where it flutters onto the floor, forgotten—he reaches for Richard again, pulling desperately at Richard’s shirt, his trousers. He hasn’t been this frantic with anyone in years; he’s suddenly overcome with a furious need, roaring through his veins, mixing with his sweat.

He descends on Richard, pressing every inch of his body up against the younger man’s, revelling in the feeling of all that skin; it intoxicates him and his head spins, unable to stand the way Richard is looking at him like he’s the second coming of Christ (although he doubts very much Christ would approve of what they’re about to do) so he kisses Richard again, feels their tongues meet and part, losing himself in the familiarity.

“I’ll fuck you into next month, Richard,” he mutters, feeling Richard smile against his lips.

“Don’t care how long you do it for,” he gasps in response as Jeremy’s hand fists around his cock. “As long as you fucking do it _now_.”

He can tell by the way that Richard is shuddering and jutting against his hand that Richard will get very antsy if he isn’t fucked, and soon, so he reaches for the lube he’s stashed on the coffee table underneath some copies of _Autocar_ —he hadn’t thought he would need it, but here they are—and sits back.

“How do you want—” he begins, but Richard pushes him back into a sitting position against the armrest and hovers above him, and instantly he knows.

He uncaps the lube and squeezes some onto his fingers, wincing slightly at the cold, and pulls Richard close, hand dipping into the cleft of Richard’s arse, not venturing lower, not yet. He loves to tease, to draw this out until Richard is shaking and writhing, unable to form conscious syllables, the words bubbling in his mouth like water. He’s not there yet, though, so he skips his other hand over Richard’s bobbing cock, up to roll over his nipple. Richard throws his head back, and Jeremy stares in wonder at the lines of his throat, his jaw; it’s like discovering a whole new person every time they fuck.

His finger runs teasingly down to swirl around Richard’s hole, not venturing in, not yet. Richard moans and thrusts backward, but Jeremy saw that coming and moves with him, smiling evilly as Richard looks down at him angrily.

“Fucking tease, Jez,” he whimpers, touching himself in order to get some release.

Jeremy just smiles and slips a finger inside of Richard abruptly, with no warning; Richard hisses and bites his lip, his hair flopping into his eyes, his expression dark and unreadable as he bucks his hips. They both know he’s ready so, palming some more lube on his own cock, he withdraws his finger and waits for Richard to position himself. He watches with wide eyes as slowly, heartbreakingly slowly, Richard slides himself down onto Jeremy, until Jeremy is balls deep in his arse, and the sensations are buffeting him all at once—Richard’s face, flushed and sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead as his eyes flicker shut, a muscle in his jaw twitching; the feel of Richard’s hips underneath his hands, so smooth and warm; but mostly the feel of Richard, twitching around him. It’s enough to leave him gasping as the younger man begins to move, fucking himself quite literally on Jeremy’s cock, palms splayed on Jeremy’s chest for balance.

Even as he shifts his hips upwards, watching the way he slides in and out of Richard with wonder, there’s still that nagging part of his heart that asks: is this enough? Will it ever be enough? Or are they just destined to dance around each other, fucking their way through weeks and months and endless bottles of wine and films?

He can’t focus on that right now, and loses himself in the feel of Richard.

***

Jeremy blinks awake groggily. The sun is streaming through the blinds that he hadn’t bothered to close; he can smell fresh coffee on the air, but as he rolls over, his arm patting the bed desperately, he knows. It’s just another morning, and he’s awake, alone in this empty bed, like a ship lost at sea, adrift.

What does he have to do to make Richard stay? How can he change, what does he have to say to change this? He grasps the pillow that smells like Richard, is about to press it to his face _again_ , mind slowly swirling around, trying to decipher how much his life has changed in such a small space of time—

“Clarkson. What the _hell_ are you doing?” Richard asks from the doorway.

Jeremy just stares. “What?” he asks, rather stupidly, the pillow suspended in midair.

Richard steps into the room and puts a cup of coffee on his bedside table, perching on the side of the bed, smiling down at Jeremy. “Have you finally gone senile?”

He reaches for the coffee and takes a grateful gulp, still staring. He can’t quite believe that this isn’t a dream, that this Richard is an apparition; but when he circles his fingers around Richard’s wrist he finds the skin there is warm and soft and very real. “What are you doing here?”

Richard shrugs and looks down at his own mug. For a man so open about talking about his feelings—he’s even written a bloody book about them for Christ’s sake—he seems hesitant to speak, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. His tongue runs out to wet his lips and Jeremy is struck, abstractly, by how beautiful he is and how he had never, ever pictured his life this way when he’d first shook hands with Richard at Dunsfold years ago.

“Thought it was about time,” Richard blurts, suddenly, raising his eyes to Jeremy’s. He can feel the anxiety coming off Richard, it’s palpable, he can taste it on the air.

He understands what Richard is saying; he’s able to read between the lines enough to get it. They know each other well enough now that he catches the unspoken words and, all of a sudden, it’s enough. He still doesn’t have a name for – for whatever they’re doing, and he doesn’t know if he ever will. But what bothered him five minutes ago is no longer an issue; Richard _stayed_ , Richard stayed and made him coffee and for the moment it’s enough. He slides an arm around Richard’s waist and pulls him in for a kiss, the joy making it taste even sweeter. It’s enough, and he’s got Richard, and that’s all that matters.


End file.
